


Konnorónhkhwa

by Marshmallow3



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort/Angst, Declarations Of Love, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Light Angst, Love, Love Confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 12:04:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17939342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marshmallow3/pseuds/Marshmallow3
Summary: Imagine - learning Connor’s real name for the first time.





	Konnorónhkhwa

Knocking on the door to Connor’s study, you slip into the room to inform him that dinner is almost ready. Your words catch in your throat, spying him sat by the fireplace, reading a piece of parchment. The flames do glorious things to his features, you muse, his honey skin aglow with amber tones as the dancing shadows mark the creases under his eyes and the dimples cornering his lips.

He raises his head at the intrusion, smiling warmly at the sight of you. Your initial purpose lost, you wander over to his seat, poking your head over his shoulder.

“What you reading?”

He hums for a second. You’re of a naturally inquisitive nature - code for nosey - and he has no secrets to hide from you, so why not. Patting his lap, he welcomes you with a hug when you make yourself comfortable across his broad thighs.

“A correspondence from my tribe. It is nothing of interest, simply an update on their location.”

Your eyes skim over the letter, though your effort is in vain as it’s drafted in Mohawk, the language of Connor’s tribe. One word stands out as it’s often repeated throughout the note.

“Hey, Connor?”

“Yes?”

“What does this word mean?”

Brushing your finger to the word, his eyes follow your path until you settle on  **Ratonhnhaké:ton**.

“That is my birth name, Y/N.”

Your face obviously washes over with confusion as he continues.

“‘Connor’ is the name Achilles gave me, to help me,” he mumbles in his native tongue, hand gesturing as he searches for the correct phrasing. “Fit in.”

You notice his face drop at the mention of his late Mentor, turning away to hide his morose expression.

You had been working for Achilles for quite a few years before Connor had arrived at the Homestead, helping the old man out as his age caught up with him. Your duties varied from mucking out the stables to keeping tabs on his diet, making sure he was getting the best chances to live for several more years. While you had grown close to Achilles as a friend, you can’t imagine the grief Connor felt after his passing. The man was like a father to him.

You want to lift the mood, but you want to do it respectfully.

Resting your head on his shoulder, you press your hands over his.

“Teach me how to say it.”

He glances down at you, unsure how to even process your words.

“I want to be able to say your name,” you press gently, hoping to reassure him.

Nodding, he shifts in his position to fully face you, keeping his hands firm around your form so you don’t fall onto the floor.

“Ra don ha-gay don,” he rolls off quickly.

You take a deep breath, mentally scorning him for making it sound so easy. Your eyes settle on his lips, ready to repeat the syllables.

“That’s 'ra’.”

“Ra.”

“'don’.”

“Don.”

“'ha’.”

“Ha.”

“'gay’.”

“Gay.”

“'don’.”

“Dun.”

He shakes his head, enunciating the final syllable more clearly.

“Don,” you correct, smiling. “Ra don ha-gay don.”

He nods. You half expected him to be pleased but sadness still haunts his face. You cup his cheek, thumb stroking his warm skin.

He shudders a sigh, almost as though he’s swallowing back tears.

“You know, the last person to call me that was my mother.”

Oh.

You apologise quickly, you clearly have no place intruding the sanctity of his mother’s memory.

“No,” he opens his eyes, his brown gaze watery as his lips curve into a smile. “I want you to call me it, if you are willing.”

You’d already felt the lumps rise in your throat at such a heavy conversation. Not trusting your voice not to crack, you settle for sticking your pinkie finger out and giggle as he looks on confused, before wrapping his finger around yours.

“What else can you teach me?”

He deliberates for a moment, mulling it over.

“Konnorónhkhwa. Go-no-loon-kwa.”

You repeat it perfectly, and beam when he praises you. You ask what it means, taken slightly aback when instead of responding, his eyes bore into yours with a sudden heat, his thumb stroking back and forth on yours, his forehead pressing against yours as the proximity has his breath tickle your lips.

“I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> If I’ve phrased anything that seems offensive or racist, please let me know kindly. It isn’t my intention to hurt anyone. I’ve done research into the pronunciations, but I admit I don’t know a lot about the culture.


End file.
